


Heir Today

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Community: hobbit_smut, Crack, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry gets up close and personal with the Family Tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heir Today

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006 for the 'Express Train to Hobbiton' Challenge, which was to write a fic and introduce an Anachronism somehow. Can you guess what mine was? :)

It was funny how things could be so happy and so sad, all in one go. After all, the ceremony was grand, and it was a fine sight to see his papa in his richest red waistcoat, and all the hobbits of Brandy Hall, and a great deal more from rather further afield, all here to pay him their respects, and to do Grandpapa honour. But still. It left Merry feeling funny. Like a puffed up frog and no way to croak his distress. He tugged a little at his done-up collar, and contemplated his own silver grey waistcoat, too sombre by half really, but he hadn't felt like anything more.

And then he mouthed his responses to the ritual phrases and watched as Papa raised up the Horn of Buckland, and in the pride of the moment he forgot to think about his discomfort, as Papa was declared Master of Buckland, and everybody cheered. It was enough to make his heart thump, and his chest swell, although he was brought down to earth again soon enough. They'd only laid Grandpapa yesterday, after all, and it didn't seem right to be celebrating, not so soon, even though the weight of tradition was behind them. It didn't seem right, and Merry sighed.

"Come now," said a familiar voice behind him, "Uncle Rory wouldn't want your long face, you know he wouldn't. He'd tickle you into a smile whether you'd like it or not, and call you a young cub into the bargain, however far into your tweens you'd got. Remember him as he was, Merry, and smile for that, for all that it's sad that he's not here to see it."

At that, Merry turned and bestowed the requested item on his favourite cousin, for all that it was a pale and watery version of his usual demeanour, and Frodo chuckled, before linking his arms with Merry's.

"That's better," he said, "And I know what would make us even more cheerful…"

"An ale?" suggested Merry, knowing well his friend's usual inclinations.

Frodo poked him in the ribs as he began to lead him from the Hall. "No, although you're not far from the truth of it."

"Two ales," said Merry promptly, having played this game before.

"Alas," said, Frodo, "I had something slightly else entirely in mind – and don't be suggesting tweener games either, for you know I'm well past such antics."

Merry closed his mouth and smiled a mite more heartily at that – for anyone less past 'tweener games' than dear Frodo would be hard to find.

"No," said Frodo, "I was thinking of the Ceremony."

"We've just seen it, Frodo," said Merry, wondering whether a crack about his cousin's great age and his resulting memory loss would go down well.

Frodo shifted a little, and then draped an arm around Merry's neck. It occurred to Merry that Frodo was holding on quite tightly, and that it might be a little hard to get away… always assuming he would want to. But no sooner had the thought formed than Frodo was tugging him quite sharply into a side passage and other eager hands were throwing a rug over his head. He would have spluttered that this was entirely unnecessary – since when had Meriadoc Brandybuck not been up for a bit of fun and games? – but he wasn't given the chance. With giggles and whispers, unknown hands pulled and tugged him, until he was all turned about – although he was fairly sure they left the Hall at one point. The air was fresher in the gardens, and there was a crunch of gravel under his feet. They seemed to be going an awfully long way.

"Here we are," said Frodo's voice cheerfully, "And you no worse for wear."

The rug was removed, and Merry was prepared to be quite huffy, unless the resultant celebration proved to be of sufficient quality, since he was scarcely feeling himself, and Frodo knew it. But instead of a prepared prank, or other game, he found himself standing in a glade, a dark and mossy hollow, one he barely recognised, and Merry thought he knew the grounds of Hall like the back of his hand.

There were whisperings, and shiftings in the gloom, for the sun had begun to set while Frodo had had his way. Merry couldn't even see who was there, although he thought he caught Mentha's distinctive snort. All the younger members of the family, he thought, and no-one from further afield, all Brandybucks of one stripe or another, whatever their current family names. His ire disappeared beneath the curiosity that had got him into trouble again and again over the years. What was the Ceremony that Frodo had spoken of? How could it be that Merry had never even heard of it?

Frodo stepped forward looking solemn. "Well now, my lad. It's time. For long ages have the Brandybucks conducted this Ceremony, and it has been handed down from father to son, and so on, until we come to you. Your father, Saradoc, made sure I knew of it, and you, in turn, will ensure your son participates when his time comes."

Merry swallowed. It sounded much more serious than he had expected.

"Your father is now Master of Buckland," Frodo continued, "And we have all gathered to do him honour, but you have forgotten, Merry, that he is not the only one so elevated. You are now the Heir to Buckland. And that is not to be taken lightly."

Merry wanted to protest that he never had, but it didn't seem to be the appropriate moment. He wondered where Frodo was going with this, and what he'd have to do. He gasped then as Frodo pulled out a wickedly sharp looking knife from a sheath nearly hidden at his waist. Good heavens, that was going a bit far! Surely they didn't demand some kind of blood sacrifice? What sort of Ceremony was this anyway?

"The Heir must show his dedication to the people of Buckland. He must show his commitment, and his right, in turn, to lead them."

There was a murmuring of agreement from the crowd, that was really quite disturbing now he came to think about it.

"When Gorhendad first carved this land out from the Wastes, and changed his name to Brandybuck, he and his family had to face many challenges. Not least of which was taming the Old Forest." Stepping back, Frodo threw out his hand dramatically, gesturing at the largest of the various trees surrounding the little glade. "This is the child of the Old Forest, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and you must tame it. Every time it has grown old and withered, another has been planted to take its place, and now it is your turn to do as your ancestors have done."

Merry looked at it. Certainly it was large, and rather impressive. It was a plane tree, he thought. Surely a tree of that kind of type. But how was he expected to tame it exactly? It was just a tree. And he had neither axe nor fire, which as he understood it, was what his ancestors had used. Merry remembered the heavy oppressive feeling he got on the outskirts of the Old Forest – certainly the Forest remembered those axes and that fire, he thought. And resented it.

"This," said Frodo, interrupting his reverie, his voice dropping deep for effect, "Is the Tree of the Heirs, the Heir Plane, if you will. Step forward, Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, and carve your place on the Family Tree."

And then Frodo was leaning forward and slapping that wicked looking knife into his palm, luckily handle first. He waggled his eyebrows at Merry, who nearly laughed. Oh, thank goodness, Frodo didn't take this as seriously as all that, after all. Perhaps a suitably dramatic flourish at the blasted tree would take care of everything. Really, if they wanted him to put on a good show, he should have been warned!

He stepped up to the looming trunk and brandished the knife, wishing he didn't feel quite so silly. He took his other hand and ran it down the bark, and only then realised there were other marks on this tree. Peering and feeling them out with his fingers, Merry found his heart beating faster; for the cuts, grown over and almost healed as they were, spelt out letters. Letters that formed words he could just make out in the gloom. Rorimac, and Saradoc. Grandpapa. Father. Even Great Grandpapa Gorbadoc was there, although he must have been young Gorbadoc all those years ago. Others too, perhaps, if he looked further.

Unwillingly, a lump formed in his throat. And then he felt silly for an entirely different reason. To hide it, this inappropriate display of emotion, Merry brushed his palm around the tree until he found a clear patch of bark, and then leant in close. He carved carefully, steadily, and blinked a lot, and when he raised his gaze again to the silently waiting crowd, his eyes were once more dry.

Stepping back, Merry raised the knife, until what little light remained glinted red and orange off the blade, and the damaged trunk oozed pale sap, offering his name to the distant future. It seemed enough, for all the surrounding hobbits cheered, and Merry was very, very grateful for that. For he was not sure he could speak. Not sure in the slightest. And that didn't feel silly at all.

***

 

"Your face!" said Frodo, much later, and Merry grunted, before burying his nose in another mug. "Your face, when I pulled out the knife! I thought your eyes were going to fall out of your head. What on earth did you think I was going to do?"

"How do I know?" he replied, feeling truculent, and just a tiny bit embarrassed, "You hadn't said anything, Frodo. Call yourself a friend. You should have told me."

"Not part of the tradition, my dear Merry. My hands were tied."

Merry glanced sideways at his cousin, who was looking cheerfully wicked. And onto his fourth – or was it fifth? – ale. "I'll give you tied."

Frodo just beamed happily, "Promises, promises," he said.

Merry just shook his head, and took a pull, then choked on his next mouthful, as Frodo's skilful fingers slid up his thigh.

"You'll have to let me make it up to you, Merry," said his best friend, and closest cousin, and Merry frowned.

"I thought you were past playing tweener games?" he said, still feeling grumpy about it all, and Frodo shrugged.

"It's not every day that you get to help carve another notch on the Family Tree," he leered, waggling both eyebrows, "Maybe I'm feeling younger than I thought."

Merry put down his ale before he spat more of it out over the table, and smothered a small grin. Honestly, sometimes Merry felt far older than Frodo, given the way he could carry on. Mad Baggins indeed! "I'm no-one's notch," he tried.

"Oh Merry, don't be like that!" Frodo leaned his head on Merry's shoulder and looked up at him through impossibly blue eyes, until Merry snorted and pushed him off.

"Ridiculous hobbit!" But he was laughing now, which had probably been Frodo's plan all along.

Frodo slung another arm around Merry's shoulders, although this time Merry was pretty sure he didn't have to worry about being kidnapped – at least, not in the same way. "Come on, my most serious of cousins, we've both had enough ale – let me take you away from all this. I've got hot buttered crumpets in my room…"

Merry opened his mouth to protest once more, but then in the face of Frodo's kindly – if slightly inebriated – efforts at reconciliation, he shut it again. After all, he loved crumpets, didn't he? And he loved Frodo. Where was the harm?

"I'm sure you have," he said, at last, smiling, and allowed himself be led away.


End file.
